Mmmm, that delicious chest.
I sigh and lie back down where I feel perfect. He wraps his arms around me and I feel him shifting to stand with me in his arms.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I snuggle more into the baseline of his neck.
“I’m taking you to bed.”
“Like old times?” I ask, the words drunkenly spilling out of my mouth.
“To bed to sleep.”
“That’s too bad.”
He presses me tighter to his body as we make it to the bedroom where I’ve slept the past two nights. He tries to lay me down, but my impressive bear grip doesn’t allow for it. “Please. Just stay here with me for a bit,” I ask him.
He hesitates just for a moment, then kicks off his shoes, and lies down with me still in his arms. I squirm and twist so I’m facing him.
“I think I’m still in love with you.” Was that me or him?
The room is spinning, and I’m losing the fight to the booze. I slip into oblivion, a smile on my lips.
I AM HAVING THE best dream. I’m on Gilligan’s Island, and I’m Ginger. I mean, duh, everyone would pick Ginger. I’m just walking out of the Sephora Hut, because yes, it’s a dream, so the island has Sephora, and I make toward the shore. Ahead of me, I see the most glorious sailboat. Okay, lie. It’s a yacht, and I wave at the only other person on the island. I can’t see his face, but I know I like it. I feel the warmth in my chest build as I watch this man throw some water over the side, then bring his hand to his sweaty forehead wiping away the wetness from his skin. He’s bare-chested and the sun is glimmering off his tanned muscled body. Unable to just sightsee any longer, I start walking to the ship. And yes, I’m walking on water. Come on. It’s a dream. I make it to the ship, when I feel tugging on my arm. I brush it off. Dreams can kinda get a little strange, so we’re gonna avoid the antics and continue on mission get-some-of-Captain-Hotpants.
I make it to the escalator made of ocean water and as I rise to the top of the ship, the tugging happens again.
What the feck? I try and hold onto the water railing, but it just dissolves in my hands. I start to actually run up the escalator, but under my feet, the water is not so solid and I begin to fall through the mirage.
Just as the smokin’ hot man dips his head over the edge of the boat, I plunge into the water.
I wake up with a start. I bolt upright and frantically say, “My Sephora bag.” I had a lot of cool stuff in that bag and now it’s drowning. Two seconds of realizing I’m back to reality, and I shield my eyes quickly and throw myself back onto the bed.
“Oh, my God, I think I’m blind!” I groan into my hands. The scorching sun is so bright it’s sending daggers into my skull. I’m starting to wish I’d drowned along with my cosmetics.
“Why were you two hugging like Mommy and Daddy hug in bed?”
That little precious pipsqueak of a voice. I hear her, but I’m not sure what’s she’s saying is registering. My head is going to explo—
Hugging?
I quickly open one eye and turn to my left.
And there I see Ian’s sleeping figure, so handsome. So peaceful. So . . .”Shit.” I have no idea why we’re in bed together. I’m not proud of what I do next. But I check to see if I have clothes on.
Okay, fully dressed. Check.
“What is shit?” Pippa asks.
Oops.
“It’s a word little princesses should never say.” That’s Ian with his groggy sex voice. I turn again to see him slowly peeling his eyes open.
God.
Like God, as in he might be one. Even waking from sleep he can work wonders on my libido. I’m still totally turned on from my dream and I’ve started gnawing at the inside of my cheek to fight the hunger to attack him and bite and lick every part of him.
“Are you hungry?” I hear him ask me.
“God yes,” I say instantly. “Wait, no!” Hmph. “I mean no. I’m fine.”
He laughs, disregarding my horrible lie, something I have never mastered, and sits up.
“Good morning there, little princess. Since Chrissy isn’t hungry, are you?”
“I’m hungry! I’m hungry! I can make pampakes!”
Strange, in unison we both quickly say, “No!” Apparently I’m not the only one who’s caught on to the dangers of those poor frozen flapjacks. Too bad the look of complete disappointment shatters our fight against it.
“You know, I was wrong, I would looove some pancakes. Do you think you can make some, Pip?”
Ten points for me, I’ve saved the day because with her signature squeal she jumps off the bed and races out of the room into the kitchen where we hear banging of drawers and cabinets.
This allows me to lie back down. The thought of attempting to eat a mound of pancakes makes me want to upchuck right now. If I hadn’t worked so hard to become such a classy broad, I would totally twist to my right and yack in the nightstand drawer.
Hey, it’s happened.
“So . . .” Ian says. Oops, kind of forgot about him. And why are we in the bed together?
I open one eye and look at him. He’s lying on his side, his right arm holding him up.
“Hi there.”
“Hi,” I reply shyly.
“We seem to have found ourselves in the same predicament again.”
If it’s his goal to make me blush like a schoolgirl, then he’s hit his mark. Twice I’ve woken up with him now, and I think I’ve also slept like a goddamn baby. I want to sigh, then snuggle into his armpit, which probably also smells like heaven.
Geesh, focus girl.
Regrouping, I say, “Yeah, and it feels like déjà vu with me owing you another apology. Sorry, I think I drank too much.”
“It’s okay. And you don’t owe me anything,” he responds.
Ugh, lie. I probably owe him everything.
“So . . .” I begin, trying to change the subject.
“So,” he repeats. “What are your plans, Chris?”
Hmm, in life? Who knows. In love? Definitely who knows. In general? Who the feck knows.
“I’ll be more specific since it looks like you’re having an internal debate. What do you plan on doing about Pippa?”
Ha! If he thought my first mental debate was a biggie, asking me what I’m going to do about my niece is like asking me to solve global warming or world peace.
I answer him honestly. “I have no flippin’ idea.”
At that he actually laughs. “Well, I can’t tell you how to handle the future with Pippa. I don’t know if your life in California has room for a four-year-old, but as long as you’re here, I’m here to help, obviously.”
His comment reminds me of my drunken voicemail to Brent. Wondering if he got the hint, I conclude probably not. Then the email filters to the front of my memory. I need to check to see if I got a reply. I wonder what the logistics are for taking a child back to California. Do I need ownership papers? Can I even take her out of the state?
You’re not kidnapping her to Mexico, Chrissy . . .
Right.
Still, just thinking about a four-year-old in an all marble high-rise, playing dress up while her aunty sips on her Cristal with her fancy snob friends sounds like the almighty perfect setup for Pippa’s future.
Not.
I deliriously snort. Then I remind myself how to breathe since I’m all of a sudden suffocating.
In and out. In and out.
“Ookay. How about we do baby steps here,” Ian says.
I’m breathing in and out, trying to hold back my anxiety attack. I nod quickly, closing my eyes.
“I’m sorry, Chrissy, I know this is a lot for you to take in, but I have to ask this, before we begin to figure out what to do. Do you plan on staying long?”
I just stare at him. As in, staying in this bed? Staying today? For the next week?
“Okay. I’ll be a bit clearer. Do you plan on staying in Ashford with Pippa?”
What I want to plan is to stay in never-never lan
d forever and not have to address these realistic questions. But if I’m honest with myself, I already made up my mind that I’m going to step up to the plate with taking guardianship of Pippa. I might have no idea how to take care of her yet, but in the last forty-eight hours I think I’ve fallen in love for the second time in my life. And if there is one thing I can still do for my sister, it’s creating a home and family for that little girl.
I just don’t know the hows, whens and wheres . . . like, any of it. I don’t know what taking care of a kid fully entails. If feeding her frozen pancakes and dressing her in costume jewelry was all it took, I’d be golden. But I’m afraid it probably takes a little bit more effort than that. Even those cute little gremlins needed more.
Then, there’s obviously the whole other-human-in-my-life factor. I didn’t know I had any maternal instinct, but just the thought of Brent having anything negative to say about Pippa makes me want to claw his spoiled little eyes out. Thankfully for his eyes’ sake and mine, he won’t be in my life for long.
Once I make this huge decision, Pippa and I will become a package deal. And I need to focus on that. I really need to see if that lawyer responded since that new housing just got moved up in importance.
“How’s that silent conversation going so far?” Ian breaks my—exactly what it is—one-on-one with myself.
I prop my chin on my hands, as if I’m in serious thinking mode. “It’s been pretty productive. I’ve made some solid decisions, I feel, but there are still a lot of blanks.”
He laughs, his smile so infectious it makes me just want to roll on top of him and smack my lips to his plump ones and suck on his face until I have no more breath in my lungs.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I hear him break through my daydream.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like you want to eat me for lunch.” He laughs with that devilish smirk on his gorgeous face.
Ian’s playful words are ringing in my ears, and because it seems I’ll always be a teenager at heart, I do what’s only right at this moment. I tackle him and jump on top with my pillow ready, starting a one-sided pillow fight.
“Take it back,” I demand as I hit the side of his face. Once. Twice. Ian is laughing too hard to fight back.
“Never,” he chuckles between breaths, but before I’m able to get another good whack in, he magically flips me over and takes the lead, now on top. “Now what are you going to do about it?” he asks in that deep voice that might as well be his fingers tickling my bits.
My face flushes instantly. I think we both realize at the same time that his privates are perfectly aligned with my privates and if anyone even breathes a smidge of air, it will cause friction. And possibly the quickest orgasm ever.
No shocker, I also have absolutely no rebuttal. And it’s because I can now feel something hard and large and breath-stealing pressing along the inside of my thigh.
The silence becomes deafening. Without our laughter or our playfulness, the only thing you hear is the erratic beating of our hearts and the heavy breathing we’re both trying to control.
What I started as a lighthearted joke is turning into something more meaningful, and it might not end like we both want. I want him to ravish me. My lips, my body, my soul. But when you throw in what I should do, it deletes all those possibilities. I may be on a break, whatever that means anymore in today’s society, but dick or not, it’s wrong to be rolling around in the bed with another guy, especially this guy, even if I have intentions of completely ending it with Brent. And somewhere deep, deep down, I feel I need to mention that before things get out of hand.
Ian stares at me, waiting. Studying. Focused absolutely on my mouth. His playfulness still lingers, but I can see the beast inside. The man who wants to stop playing games and feel physically what we are both screaming mentally.
My name leaves his lips on a soft whisper as he dips his head closer to my lips.
He’s going to do it.
He’s going to kiss me.
He makes it close enough for me to feel his warm breath on my face before I stop him.
“Wait,” I blurt out, mentally kicking my own ass for stopping him.
“Chrissy, I’ve been waiting a pretty damn long time. It feels like my whole life. Don’t make me wait any longer.”
Are. You. Kidding. Me. Who says that to someone? And then how is that same someone supposed to have the willpower to say, Hold on. I’m kinda semi-engaged. We’re on a break, but . . .
I open my mouth and I’m so tempted to just say, Kiss me.
“Ian, I have to tell you something—” I don’t get out much more before the high-pitched voice echoes throughout the hallway.
“Pampakes! Pampakes! Pampakes!” Pippa’s squeal puts an end to anything we were about to indulge in and I will later regret.
“Pancakes,” I whisper, thanking Pippa for saving the day.
“Pancakes.” Ian mimics my words, disappointment in his tone.
The moment lost. He breathes out and stands up.
I promise myself that I will tell him later. Definitely tell him later.
BREAKFAST TURNS OUT TO be quite eventful. Ian, apparently familiar with the dangers of Pippa and frozen pancakes, avoids the mounds of killer cooked-and-recooked frozen discs and makes homemade batter instead. Watching a grown man stand in a kitchen while pouring pancake batter into a steaming hot skillet, does something to a woman. If that didn’t do it for me, watching him create Mickey-Mouse-shaped pancakes and make Pippa’s world just that much sweeter, also made it sweeter for me.
Breakfast accomplished, I excuse myself to call Cornelius. I’m not ready to explain my entire situation to him, but I do tell him I need to extend my leave for another week or two. He’s obviously hesitant. Losing his golden-egg laying goose is not what he wants, but I assure him I will be back as soon as I handle my family affairs. Leaving out that I also may or may not have to cut down my hours due to childcare and preschool drop-offs.
I finish my call, and with that weight off my shoulders, I join Ian and Pippa on the couch for what looks like a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse marathon. Given the situation, I find myself sandwiching Pippa between Ian and me as we watch close to three hours of Mickey and friends. At some point Pippa falls asleep, half on Ian, half in my lap.
The remainder of the day is spent entertaining Pippa and learning the whole heritage breakdown of every single princess ever created. Walt Disney would be proud.
Ian grills steaks for dinner, and when he notices me salivating as I watch him hovering over the grill, I blame it on the excitement of finally eating protein instead of those carbcakes. It works too, since it’s the best steak I’ve ever eaten and I spend half the time moaning through my bites.
I’m not sure Ian fully appreciates my approval of his cooking since every time I moan, he groans, constantly adjusting himself in his seat.
Oops.
The day gets away from us and before we know it, we’re back in our designated positions on the couch. I feel bad for about a quarter second that Ian is neglecting his own home, wherever that is, but I can’t imagine having to go through this without him. Sometime during the day Ian and I established a plan on how to temporarily handle Pippa. I haven’t heard anything back from the lawyer so I felt it best to go with Ian’s advice of keeping her schedule as normal as possible.
Pippa is already zonked out when he turns his face toward mine and rests his muscled arm over the couch, draping it next to my head. He looks like he wants to say something and if it involves talking about what happened this morning, I’m going to pull out an old-school trick and spit out the word cramps or possibly period to shut him up. Low blow but works every time. Not sure what it is with guys and the dreaded menstruation topic.
Ugh, speaking of tampons. No thank you, vodka flashbacks.
“So,” he begins. “I know you may be anti-this, but Pippa has pre-k summer camp during the week.”
I mentally phew, feeling relieved. One, because of
the obvious. Two, because I was totally wondering what I was supposed to do with a four-year-old all day long. This completely saves me time on Googling ‘tiny human instruction manual.’
Ian continues, “And if you’re staying, for whatever time it is, I thought . . . if you wanted . . . you could come hang out with me at work.”
This catches me off guard. “At work?”
“Yeah, at the Prevention Center. There are some great kids there. And they actually have an art program. Holly, who used to be in charge of it, just left because she had a kid, so no one is currently running the art projects. Everyone has been pitching in, but if you want, being in that field and all”—he hesitates—“if you have an interest while you’re here, you can come by. Maybe see some of the kids. Teach a little bit of art to them.”
I’m stunned at his offer. I want to compliment him on his sweet pitch because, man, I didn’t see that fast one coming.
“You want me to go to work with you?” I question.
“That’s what I said,” he confirms.
“As in, go and help teach a class to kids.”
“That’s what I was getting at.”
Panic and excitement both hit me like a sledgehammer. It’s been so long since I’ve actually held a brush in my hands and played with paint. Art is my utopia. Always has been. When we were younger, I would talk about attending a college for arts and becoming something great. When I made it to California, doing anything art related was a bit harder than I imagined, so I found work in art galleries in hopes of getting that ‘big break’ through those contacts. Obviously I got the big break, it just wasn’t on the side of the easel where a lot of paint and messiness was involved.
I replay his offer in my head.
Envisioning this place where kids go to find comfort away from the travesties of their home lives sounds so wonderful. My life may have ended up differently if I’d had such an outlet. I replay the comment Ian made when I first learned about the center. About knowing what kids needed. Helping these kids find an outlet through art is right up my alley. It’s like my jam.
My So Called Life (Love Not Included Series Book 3) Page 8
